Wednesday, November 10, 2010

To start with, let me tell you, this is just an expression of some wild ideas I had yesterday.

Don’t tell me stuff I already know, like “it’s crazy” or “it’s dumb”. My logic goes like this- We always talk about ghosts as supernatural beings formed after our death. But it defies me what reasons these entities might have to harm us.

Why can’t there be other invisible, supernatural species altogether, which has no connection to humans at all? Maybe there are, and maybe ‘our’ ghosts protect us from them in some und

efined way. And maybe we keep saying we’re scared of our protectors.

Few days ago, on Halloween, we were on the C-1 terrace of our complex with night vision cameras and all, trying to make a ghost movie. We found an empty bed and few bundles under the rooftop tank. Somehow, I decided to write this cracked story on the same setting.

*************“Eew! Don’t tell me we’ll sleep here!” Katie said, making a horrible face at my precious makeshift bedroom. Well, it didn’t actually qualify for a bedroom. Just a folding bed tucked under the water tank of a terrace, with clothes bundled together to serve as pillows

“Yup, this is it.” I sighed.

We had gathered after almost a year. With the ever increasing study-load, we didn’t get leaves at all. So we decided to make the most out of the Halloween holiday. Obviously, I wouldn't have been allowed to let her stay over at my place due to strict parents, and her place was full with relatives as usual. We had no choice but to come here, which had been my childhood hideout.

“This place is scary!” She said, looking shocked.

“Uff, I’m there with you toh.”

“Aren’t YOU scared?”

“I didn’t have the liberty to be scared away from a creepy place and have you at the same time. So I picked the latter.” I smiled.

At this, she burst out laughing and gave me a quick kiss.“You’re so irresistible at times” She said, putting on a sexy pout. We entered the dark place, stooping uncomfortably to save our heads from the low ceiling. But once we got into bed and started chatting, we were quite easy. Katie had this amazing ability of keeping any conversation lively and interesting, irrespective of the topic. We talked for hours. Then, just when she was about to start all the good stuff, the entire place lit up suddenly.

“What the….!” Katie jumped up, and ended up banging her head against the ceiling. It was a group of teens with flashlights and handycams!

“Don’t you think it’s strange that there’s a bed here?” one of them asked the other.“Yeah” the other replied.

They kept swinging the flashlights from side to side, exploring the place. I saw Katie’s bewildered expression turn into that cute devilish grin, which I was so crazy about.

“Well, well, well! You never said living humans wander willingly right into your hideout!” I could see her canines glowing in the light, and her eyes lighting up in excitement.

“This is the first time I’m seeing them here. Anyway, you know we can’t eat them, honey” I said gravely.

“Why not?!” she looked at me incredulously, as if I had gone mad.

“Don’t you even read the newspapers? There’s so much hype over this particular article.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You must’ve heard that we’re slowly losing our grip on the war against ghosts. A group of scientists working on humans proved yesterday that new ghosts aren’t born from darkness, as was previously believed, but when humans are killed. The government says we can’t afford to deal with more of those horrible creatures. So killing humans for sport or consumption has been permanently banned.”

“You must be shitting me!” she looked on in disbelief.

“No dear. We had been actually ‘creating’ the enemy all along.”“There’s nothing interesting here guys. Let’s check the other side of the terrace” one teen from the group concluded. With this they left, leaving us in darkness.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Looking down at the millions of living people from this lonely spot by the window, it seems like everyone is playing up to a sick joke. But have we ever taken a little time out and asked ourselves, why? Get best grades in school, get into the best college, get the best job, take good care of family, and then…?

Basically, we all just want to be happy. “Happiness is not the goal, it’s a by-product” – is a highly misleading statement. We keep doing things blindly, believing they would help us achieve a happy future. Trying, working inhumanly, giving up everything for the cause – all good, but the thing is, is it really worth it?

I’ve never believed in sacrificing the present for a better future. Looking back at my life till 10th grade, I don’t regret all the disappointing report cards, but the fact that I’ve missed out on so much. Learning guitar, swimming, good books, etc. And now I’m too busy. Even now, I feel pathetic when my parents urge me to sacrifice almost everything for studies. ‘It is the main goal, rests are useless distractions’ – they say.Ultimately, we tend to forget the real goal. Happiness. And compromising is the last thing that can ever make you happy.

Preserving the best for the last. Our happy tale. Unfortunately, humans have evolved away their tails. And now we end up with nothing but a sore butt.Frankly, I don’t get the point of this post. Baseless grievances on something out of my hands, I guess.

Monday, October 18, 2010

This Nabami, a large group had gathered, and we were having discussions about supernatural stuff. Things were getting quite creepy. The elder guys were telling real life stories about few strange things that they’ve witnessed. We heard about a worker, who fell through a lift shaft while Mangalam Park was being built, and got barbequed on a rod below. We heard the story of strange noises on A2’s terrace at night. We heard about celebrity ghosts caught on tape. And many more.

Abesh da came up with an incident which really gave me chills, for the first time in the entire conversation. Believing it is up to the reader. I’ll narrate his words--

When I was in fourth year of Medical College, a strange happening was published in the college’s weekly editorial. It was about ragging, which was pretty common in our hostel. The seniors would make the girls do embarrassing stuff like erotic dancing, smoking etc. One girl came, who was kind of a daredevil. She openly refused to do as the senior guys said. Because she was a girl, the seniors could not beat her up, as they would’ve done in case of a boy. So, they planned something else.

Unlike the boys, the girls had single rooms for themselves. The seniors obtained a severed hand from the lab and kept it under her bed sheet. When she entered her room at night, the guys bolted her from outside and switched off the main power supply of the hostel. After few minutes, she started banging the door desperately from inside at first. She must’ve discovered the hand. The guys went off laughing and returned in about fifteen minutes. The banging had stopped. Finally, they unbolted the door and asked her to come out. But there was no reply.

They got scared.

She might’ve got a heart attack or something. They scanned the dark room with torches. But it was empty. The bed sheets were on the ground and the room was in a mess with books thrown all over the floor. She must’ve jumped from the window. They were discussing whether to look down, when someone’s torch fell on the almirah.

She was crouching there, on top of the almirah, chewing the hand.

That's what frightful shocks can do to you. She had to be taken to a mental hospital.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Pujas at Mangalam Park are always special. Partly because I get to see my complex mates only during festivals. Durga Puja provides the best five days of the year. Yes, I do have to face ridicules from school mates and relatives for not going pandal hopping or on trips. But these ridicules bring a strange pleasure, the kind of pleasure you get while being mocked for listening to The Beatles, while others are praised for loving Miley.

This year was the best and the last. Our group was not as lively without Vishu, but we enjoyed nevertheless. And I can feel people around me maturing. The change is just too intense to be ignored, especially in people whom you meet after a gap of 365 days. Well, I have enough reasons to miss MP after I leave, and I’m glad about it. =)

Monday, September 27, 2010

It’s a quarter after 12, and I can’t sleep tonight. I’ve been listening to a radio program which gave its concluding speech, promising to return next Sunday. So, I switch to some Coldplay music instead. It is barely audible above the clattering of rain against the window pane beside me.

A white sheet of paper is spread out on the table in front of me, under the lit table lamp. I’m sitting with heavy eyes and a pen in my hand. All ready to start writing.

The atmosphere of the room brings a pleasant chill. Mostly, it is engulfed in darkness, the faint lamp being the only source of light. The packing boxes and the huge pile of books throw enormous and awkward shadows behind them, creating obscure dimensions on the feebly pale walls. Frequently, dazzling flashes would submerge the room, killing all shades, followed by ear-splitting thunder, which would leave the glass panes trembling.

If you look outside the window, you see a prevailing reflection of the lamp along with your own dull face staring back at you through the watery mess. Beyond that, you see the smudged yellow rays of glowing streetlights. They scatter to new patterns of randomness with each strike of raindrops. You notice a delicate layer of mist on the inner side of the glass. You can scribble non-sense with your fingertips, and laugh at your own silliness as the results fade away. Laugh, by yourself.

I stare blankly at the paper in front of me. I have always felt a peculiar sentiment towards blank papers and canvases. No matter what marks I make on them, I can never match my own expectations. Sometimes, I prefer neat, vacant exercise copies to some story books, dreaming of greater things that can be created on them…

This abnormality in me has led to a hobby of collecting unused diaries of passing years. What should’ve been written in them, are stacked up in MS Word documents instead. Often, dad would rebuke me for wasting such nice diaries. But I’ve never cared. There were times, few years back, when he would take a diary without my permission, and use it to scribble down notes for career exams. That would make me real mad. Later, I would collect the discarded, half-filled diaries, and cut away the used pages, like a doctor amputating an incurable leg of a patient. It all seems so childish now. I still collect empty diaries, but not with such devotion.

The screen of my silenced cell appears suddenly out of the darkness, amidst the pile of books. 1 message received. I have no wish to reply though, but it reminds me of the existence of people in the world. Assured by the fact that I’m not the lone sinner, I decide to waste the paper in the worst way possible. Sketching my haphazard mind.

Monday, September 13, 2010

It’s astonishing how my dreams and realities find a way to merge themselves at the back of my head. This is due to my strange memory, to some extent. When I suddenly fish out old, deserted memories, I often find myself confused whether it’s a real one. It has happened numerous times, but never as commandingly as the story I’m going to share.

When I was in class 10, I had a sudden urge to continue my coin collection, which I had given up due to boredom. I found the dusty pouch of foreign coins at a corner of my shelf. I emptied its contents on the bed to survey what I already had. Two small, golden coins caught my eye. They were coupled together with a rubber band, which had turned into a molten, gooey mass due to the heat of confinement. I could have sworn I had never seen them before.

‘Royal Government of Bhutan’ – I observed after getting rid of the messy band. I remembered, vaguely at first, and then clearly, as if it were yesterday.

We had gone to Bhutan in 8th grade, I think. Another family had accompanied us. Uncle Arun, his wife, and Leena (his daughter) who was a year younger than me, and who looked a hell lot like Ankana. Uncle Arun was Dad’s colleague at work.

I had just started my coin collection back then, and was quite obsessed with it. I decided to bring back one specimen of every Bhutanese coin available. But I was highly disappointed when I found that only one variety of coins was available – 1 Ngultrum. I could get a thousand of those (in fact I brought back dozens), but not a single different model. People mostly used notes.

One evening, Leena and I were left waiting at a restaurant for some reason. Our parents were away somewhere. I noticed an young European sitting alone at a table. He was slowly stirring a spoon in his coffee absent mindedly. He seemed to be the timid type and after a great deal of hesitation, I approached him, dragging along Leena with me.

“Sir…I…I collect coins. Can you…um…give me any coin of your country?” I have issues with spoken English at times when it really counts.He smiled apologetically and said, “I’m carrying only Bhutanese currency at this moment. Foreign money is no use here.”“Oh…it’s fine”, I said disappointed.“But sit down. I have something interesting for you”, he said gesturing at two seats facing him.

Foreigners, especially Western people, have this extraordinary ability to develop short, enjoyable acquaintances, which most Indians miserably lack. I have noticed this every time I’ve interacted with them.

We sat down. He took out his wallet and produced two golden coins. “You might not have these. They’re not very common.” he said.

Both coins were identical in all respects. One side had an abstract pattern which looked like two dumbbells overlapping at right angles. On the other side, an intricate design was engraved, which showed two fish kissing each other, with silky strings spiraling around them, holding them together in a tight embrace. Inscribed near the circumference in small letters were- Twenty five Chhetrum, Royal Government of Bhutan, 1979, and few words in Bhutanese language.

“I have a small story behind this”, the European said, smiling, “Care to listen?”“Yes… tell us.”“Ah…” he cleared his throat and began. “I’ll brief it. Two years ago, I got married. We came to Bhutan for our honeymoon. My wife took a fancy in these…” he said indicating the coins.“These are supposed to be symbols of love. She made me keep one in my purse, and she kept one in her handbag. That way we were supposed to be eternally bonded” he chuckled, as if mocking the silliness of his own words.“We went back home. The eternal bond lasted a year and half.” he stressed on the words ‘eternal bond’ sarcastically; “We developed some problems and got divorced. And her parting gift was her damned coin,” there was a hint of anger in his voice. Then he burst out laughing again. I was beginning to feel scared. He must’ve been mad with grief to be laughing at something like that.Finally stopping his laughter, he concluded calmly, “Well, the point is, I’d like to get rid of them. In fact, I am re-visiting Bhutan for the very purpose. Take ‘em.”“Thank you. We’ll pay when dad…” He stopped me with a gesture of his hand.“You’re doing me a favor, kid” he said with a playful wink, “Have a nice day.”

As soon as we were out of his audible range, Leena turned to me.“What did he say?” she asked. Then, seeing the incredulous look developing on my face, she added in a matter-of-fact way, “Couldn’t understand his accent.”“Good for you.” I replied, completely bored.“He gave you two. Give me one.”She extended her palm, expecting me to hand over a coin, as if it were candy. ‘You don’t know the first thing about coins’, I wanted to scream. However, I controlled myself.“I can’t do that.” I stated solemnly.“Why not?”“Because they are love coins. He said a man gives one to the woman he loves, and keeps the other.”“Oh! Never mind!” she said, snatching away her hand and blushing violently.* Winks at readers. ^_~ *

A mentioned earlier, this memory came back to me in class 10. I told everyone about the incident, and didn’t forget it again. Now, 2 years later, while I was cleaning my bookshelf, I found a pocket diary. It was a record of the Bhutan trip. I had totally forgotten about its existence. I went through it and made a strange discovery.

From the diary -

14th November 2006: bla…bla…bla… Today I finally got a new variety of coin. A guy at the temple gave them to me for free. Leena couldn’t understand his accent…bla…bla…bla…

15th November 2006: bla...bla…bla… I had a strange dream last night. I saw that the coins I got were love coins with a past attached to them. In the dream, the same guy from yesterday gave me the coins, but in a restaurant. He told a story of him getting divorced and all. It’s silly really. By the way,..bla…bla…bla…

So you see what I mean? I had been living with a fake memory for two complete years. But fake or not, they’ll be love coins to me. And I will give one to that special person. ^__^

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Regretfully, I haven’t been able to get involved into anime watching as much as I want to. I’m limited to the shows of Animax, and very occasional internet downloads.

Nine out of every ten people will discard anime as something childish and meaningless. Just because it is animation, and not real-life. However, it’s something quite different, I assure you. In many ways, it is greater than what real-life is and what it can possibly achieve. Like a fantasy land, where every bit of emotion is amplified, every bit of action is intensified, full of perfect, yet proper romance, and moments full of tears and belly-aching laughter. I’ve often found myself craving to exist in that virtual world as an anime character rather than this one.

One negative point is, definitely, lack of diversity of ‘quality’ anime. You can find countless amazing real-life movies, but you can count amazing animes with one hand. But the best ones are so excellent, that they compensate for the rarity.

First, in 5 centimeters per second. The two lead roles, Akari and Takaki, had been living separately for more than a decade. They had been past lovers. One day while walking down a road, they presumably pass and recognize each other, across a train crossing. They both pause and begin to look back, but the passing trains quickly cut off their view. Takaki waits for the trains to pass, but when the view clears, he sees that the woman is gone. She had not waited. After a pause, he smiles to himself and continues walking. Thus the brief chance of reunion vaporized.

Second, in Honey and Clover. Yamada had been in love with Mayama for quite a while. She had never confessed it, but Mayama knew. One night, Mayama was carrying the drunken Yamada on his back, to drop her home. He was mumbling about how precious Yamada was to him, and he didn’t want to hurt her by turning her down. Just then Yamada whispered “Mayama, I love you” and burst into silent tears, moistening his coat. She kept repeating the line for about 8-9 times in a trance. Mayama’s reply was simply “Yeah”. He knew that she would forget this once she’s sober in the following morning.

Both scenes have unexplained sadness attached to them. And both are accompanied by awe-inspiring background music. The first one had an incompleteness about it, which would haunt you for a good many days after watching it. The second one specially, made me want to be in that situation. For a while, I wanted someone to love me that much and to cry for me that way (it was an impulsive thought, mind you). Only, I wouldn’t have been so indifferent like Mayama. At least that’s what I like to believe. It’s a kind of scene which gets your heart desperate for seconds, till your brain pacifies it again.

I know that I have been the cause of a few teardrops here and there. Sorry to the concerned people for that, but I assure you that they were the results of simple misunderstandings.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Late night showers always bring along a sensation of loneliness, so terribly painful, and yet so addicting. A solitary room and a window is all you need.

But she notices. She notices me gazing intently at her nocturnal tears. Probably out of embarrassment she breathes foggy raindrops onto the glass. The outer world slowly fades away, and I’m left with my own reflection facing me. Thus concealing herself she weeps on, while I see only a pair of dry eyes staring back steadily.

Was she mocking me? Women have the power to shed tears, willingly or unwillingly. Men don’t. And it’s not always due to manly pride.

There have been several occasions when I’ve tried to cry (when alone of course), but in vain. I would have assumed that my tear glands are out of order had it not been for chopped onions, and open ammonia bottles in the lab.

It rains, clouds dissolve, and before long it’s morning and the sun is out again. It’s only then that she removes the watery curtain from my window, to reveal herself in her natural merry mood.

(Note: Since some dense people asked me who the weeping girl is in this post, let me tell you, I'm talking about Nature here, and no human being. Gawd!)

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

I looked up from my cell to see the three of them staring at me with pretended seriousness. I was at my cousin, Kornica’s place. She, two of her schoolmates, and I were sitting on a divan melting in the summer heat. Till then, the trio was gossiping away to glory, while I was busy texting (yeah, I’m really rude).

“Absolutely not”, I lied.“Okay, we are doing all the jabbering. Now you say something”, Tina said.

‘Now you say something’- that’s the best way to put a quiet person like me in a false situation.

“Umm…” I tried to think of a topic while they kept their large, expectant eyes fixed on me, as if children in a circus waiting for the monkey to perform. “How’s life?” Thirty secs, and that’s all I came up with. =|

“Ooh, life’s great! What about you? Can you dance?” – Sikha

What the hell! Where does dancing come from in here?

“No. I hate dancing.” – Me“C’mon, show us some bhangra steps.” – Tina“Yes yes, show us some.” – Kornica

I wondered how people would react if they found a Riju-shaped hole in the adjacent wall. [-_-]

“Sure, come back in 200 years.” – Me

The conversation followed smoothly after that. It wasn’t boring at all, like it is with most other girls. In fact, we bonded quite well. We exchanged numbers, talked about our love lives, school, and all other crap. The point is, they were successful in making me open my mouth.

Sikha is the more sarcastic one. Nice sense of humor. Cracking jokes all the time and an expert at putting on an innocent face by doing the puppy-eyes thing (her large eyes compliment the action). Tina is a little more sedate, having an accented Bengali, seemed to be a good observer and a person of some profundity.

One of them, I must say, is noticeably pretty. [Name withheld so that I don’t become a quarry of the other] The latter has decent looks as well. =)

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

As I look at my life, it becomes clear how much it has changed over the past years. Old photos and diaries bring out the physical and mental contrast between the boy then and the teenager now.

Sometimes I wonder, wouldn’t it be great if I could turn back time? But what difference would it make? One day. I’ll find myself back in the present state wondering the same thing… like an endless and pointless circle…

Childhood is undoubtedly the best part of our lives. Sadly, we realize that only after its gone forever. Isn’t that highly unfair?

The worst thing about childhood, is its immaturity, or so I believe, the immaturity which prevents us from realizing the specialty of our age.

What if I could turn back time AND retain my maturity?

No… it would be only a physical childhood then. Imagine a (mentally) 16 year old being forced to go to bed at 10, without a cell. HORROR!

What is it that makes childhood so special anyway? Lack of pressure? Unlimited free time? I think there’s more to it than that.

As children, we tend to take up a much simpler view of the world. There are separate, clear cut pathways of the right and the wrong. Every incident is attached with pure joy or pure sorrow. The world seems to be full of 2 types of people – the black and the white.

But as we continue to see more of the world, we begin to mix up everything in life… resulting in mess. Some moments come where we even have to consider whether to be happy or sad. People tend to take up different shades of grey… making choices difficult. The same ground which had once provided a surface for crawling, seems so far away…

So the basic question… what causes things to mix up? Experience makes us grow matured, a result of us trying to make ourselves more suitable to the people around us… but does that mean that we become more suitable to ourselves?

Is there a way out of this? I guess not. Life is already set in the best possible way. So just be happy about it. :)

I want to go back to the time when..

"gettin high" meant "on a swing".. ^_^

when "dad" was the only "hero".. *_*

when "love" was "mom's hug".. <3

when "dad's shoulder" was the "highest place on earth".. :)

when your "worst enemies" were "your siblings".. x)

when "candy" was the only "sweet thing" that made you cry.. :')

when the only thing that could "hurt" were "skinned knees".. :(

when the only things "broken" were your "toys".. 3

and when..

"good-byes" only meant "till tomorrow".. -_-

The best thing about childhood, is its immaturity, or so I believe, the immaturity which enables us to just live, laugh and cry.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

19D, Golf Club Road, SBI Quarters... The place holds all my childhood memories, and beloved people with whom I’ve lost all contact. Dad’s job compelled us to leave the place while I was in 6th grade. Mobile and email were still off-limits to me, so going away physically meant cutting off all means of communication. I never heard from any of those old pals again. We didn’t get any chance to revisit the place for the next couple of years due to Mom’s serious health issues. By the time she recovered, I had settled myself in the new environment, made a new set of friends and didn’t bother much about 19D.

But as fate would have it, I got admitted in a Physics tuition at Ballygunj recently, meaning that every Friday I would have to pass 19D on my way. This apparently was a nice opportunity to visit the old place again. But week after week went by, I never found myself ready to ask driver uncle to stop the car in front of that rusty gate.

I’m well aware that most SBI employees have transferable jobs. What if, once inside that place, I find all the old familiar faces missing? What if my favorite guava tree isn’t there anymore? What if the guards stop me at the gate as a stranger (they obviously will)?

I love passing by the Quarters, but I will never break journey there. It will spoil my game. I would keep the place and all the people (and of course the guava tree) intact in my memory as one single entity, rather than venture into the place and find an unknown world.

Nostalgia is a strange feeling, almost like a drug. You may hate it, but you can never have enough of it. It gives a kind of painful satisfaction.

People, who have read “The Night Train at Deoli” by Ruskin Bond, would call me a copycat for using some of his words in the above note. Quite justified, but I just couldn’t find a better way of expressing this on my own.

Right turn from the main road…, a narrow alley…, a series of gates…, last one with a SBI symbol…, a glimpse of the inner-world…dark pitched path…flooded with the evening sunrays…unknown children playing…, left turn…, main road again.

Though no record has been kept, the Physics tuition have been blessed with 100% attendance from me till date. ^_^